Harold J. Recinos | Updates

Harold J. Recinos — Tue, 1 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Redeemed ©

there is something to be

said about the tender life

in this village that handled

time like it waited for it to

be lost. Spring is beautiful

here where the elderly wait

for a piece of heaven to fall

from the sky, hours expand

with children playing on the

street and sadness drops like

leaves from trees. there are

living beside the sparkling

lake campesinos who wake

in the morning to make their

way to fields where they toil

the day long thinking about

days when no stone will be

silent on their ancient land

and those who labored for

the Spanish like slaves and

bleed for the “Americans”

for too many lonely bitter

years will find resurrection

making an appearance out

of places where dreams have

been stuck for centuries

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sun, 23 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Saints ©

I am sitting in the garden
with a statue of Saint Francis

and the Sacred Mother and
pieces of heaven are being

marshaled by squirrels and
colorful birds bouncing on

grass. for a few moments
split from a troubled world

I live in the luxurious silence
of peace and I offer thanks

to the mystery that matched
me with this spell. I think of

modern Saints like Romero
and confess they have not

washed the world clean but
almost imperceptibly days

of sin have changed in the
villages of a country named

for Christ and even on the
streets near the church with

pretty windows where I was
baptized without a word of

English.
h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sat, 22 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Exile City ©

I have learned to understand

things in two mother tongues

and one entered more recently

in dictionaries as slang. I have

lived with exiled words, in

forsaken worlds, vocabulary

invented at the edges of life

and in places never visited by

those ingeniously dodging the

ruined. I have lived among the

beaten, the weeping, the stabbed,

the shot, the jailed and the dead

for whom God looks the other

way. I have walked the streets

with people exiled, those that

do not come back to far away

lands that bleed and with too

many prophets waiting for the

end. after so many generations

in exile, meeting children who

cross the border into what was

once their land, you may now

understand why the academic

explanations for the barrios I

love leave me feeling like a

man wearing sunglasses in

the dark unable to see that

heaven may be hidden in

front of me slowly reordering

things.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sugar Cane ©

the youngest boy who had

just settled in a tenement on

the block sank his teeth on a

stalk of sugar cane. he started

to chew pausing from time to

time to throw around Spanish

words he carried from an old

ravaged world. the scars on

the little boys back were signs

of resistance when forced to

work on a coffee farm though

far too many people never did

notice he occupied a place in

reality like them. the shadows

that afternoon crawled around

the building steps like they too

wanted to take a bite of sugar

cane and listen to stories from

the land of mango, cashew and

coconut trees and churches

where the past is painted with

Saint’s faces for the penitent

and curious. the youngest boy

did smile more on the block his

mother loved and the people

who lived there improvised

life on waking, all day long

and until they slept beneath

the stars.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Search ©

I have been searching

for a language without

need for words, felt like

the wind, made with the

ingredients of love and

nourishing the sad, poor

and weak. I searched for

it on bus rides across the

country, flights over the

sea, in images on maps

and even fireflies on hot

summer nights. that day

will come when eyes see

bright red flowers growing

from rocks, the smell of

mangoes rises from the

farthest places across the

border and the people with

torn flesh walk into a new

world. I have searched with

many for prayers without

words, minus renegotiation

with heaven and replete with

the blessing of Jacob for what

comes.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Tear ©

a tear is a little lake

at the corner of an eye

that pushes itself up

from the heart. it is

a droplet of memory,

an exhausted dream

and a moist sign of a

tired soul. I often sit

at night giving thanks

to the heavens for life

blessed with more than

the world imagined for

one born in the barrio,

though the grayer my

years the more tears I

shed for the cost to so

many just to push me

over wall after wall. I

try in solitude to explain

tears that fall to the earth

like shadows, shimmer

in dim light like ghosts

and loosen like a broken

damn when no one is

around to see. there are

times when piety grabs

hold of me and I think

God in heaven cries for

us on earth yet I cannot

return a single tear for

the gone whom I carry

inside of me in a world

that cannot stretch its

length to heaven.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Aging ©

as time unfolds, nature

insists we take with us

into the wrinkled years

new passengers. there are

moments when you quietly

sit drifting in and out of the

sweet memories of love and

play, while on occasion you

open your eyes from a nightly

dream glad to recall a name

you spent a day trying to rise

inside of you. yes, Mr. Yeats

I am old and gray but not yet

full of sleep, though I admit

my heart has changed with far

too many days of sorrow. with

time dealing new cards, I have

become more aware that life

is nothing less than a Holy gift

crammed with memories, glad

and sad, and sometimes comic

forgetting. aging is part of the

fabric of time requesting that

we find our way, run the good

race, delight in lines across the

face and confess the priceless

treasure.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Fri, 7 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Drive ©

the long drive into the country

to begin a mountain climb, the

winding past the warning not

to turn left where death lurked

in the valley, waving to ladies

selling coconut juice on sides

of the bumpy road, children

at play in front of ramshackle

shacks, multicolored blooms

on the hillsides reminding me

despite the civil war what is

beautiful waits with me at the

foot of these mountains for the

second coming. for hours my

heart was beating faster than

words in me rose, the pickup

truck pulled me up the ascent,

the radio singing sweet tunes

from many places as if the air

was not blistered with a civil

war, and then I came out of

the dark night into a little

near ruined village where a

crust of bread was placed in

my hand by an elderly lady

and I saw you standing in

the town square in front of

the church.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sat, 1 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Lord ©

good Lord, we been awake

all night quite scared. hope

that came with us is beaten

and left alone on the corner

with other shattered dreams.

good Lord, if only you tried

to stop the hands that lash us,

went seeking more than any

of us and sent a few Angels

around with loudly fluttering

wings to guard us from the

crooked who we pray you turn

into a fistful of ashes so we

can scatter them at sea. good

Lord, we woke up saying we

done praying, our mouths have

no way with words cause when

we break loose for some rash

reason you don’t listen. good

Lord, you been feeding on our

suffering for a good long time

and even became flesh for it, so

remember your dark children

on this piteous earth.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sat, 1 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Stroll ©

Rosa strolled down the street

with her two kids, a boy on

roller skates passed by them,

the grocer came out to sweep

the sidewalk in front of his

store wearing a smile and

in unison they looked up at

the sky aware from church

lessons it was not forbidden.

she lived without fear on the

block, the people were her

mountain, mornings belonged

to her and she carried the little

village she fled years earlier in

her voice. when she reached

Southern Boulevard, a wide

street annually decorated for

Christmas, the young mother

squeezed her kids tiny Brown

hands and she listened to the

words arising in her praising

the time spent living a place

where speaking out for what

is right does not come with

prison or being tossed in a

shallow grave. pausing in

front of a John’s Bargain

store she whispered to the

children we are the earth,

life and dreams.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Blessing ©

I have a memory that

issues forth in evenings

like a shining star in the

dark I will never reach.

in melancholy it speaks

to me of unholy spirits

that I beat into joy and

release to the triumphant

paths of paradise not yet

found. I often see old men

cutting sugar cane in fields,

old women taking pastries

to sell in the market place,

children playing in breaking

waves at the edge of the sea,

and the look in your eyes

just before you said adios

to withdraw to a deep and

wide eternity. what else

can be confessed with such

a memory than admitting

with divine delight we are

here to simply walk each

other home.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Subway ©

we rode the number two

subway to Manhattan to

walk in Central Park, ride

the carousel, walk along

Fifth Avenue to see Saint

Patrick’s Cathedral and

leave the Bronx Streets

behind. we saw lots of

white faces, well dressed

people, foreigners with

fancy cameras on tour

and taking pictures at

Rockefeller Center. we

talked while making our

way to Bryant Park to see

the lions at the entrance of

the New York City Library

of Carmen Julia who got

strung out with her dealer

boyfriend and perished on

a filthy rooftop from too

much dope shot into a vein

on her skinny arm. we talked

about how everybody on the

block was a cousin, brother,

sister, comai, compai and

dreamer from way back

when.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Heaven ©

anything can happen waiting

for heaven in the clear blue sky

to descend on the neighborhood

with the old tenement buildings

that have been speaking Spanish

for more than six decades and

making evenings on the block

gasp with sadness. anything can

happen in the places heaven is

invited to drive bad days into the

earth and allow us to breathe the

remnants of precious dreams that

plead for light in us. anything can

happen to me in America that has

not held me like a mother and with

a lewd tongue tells me to forget who

I am. while I wait for heaven to lean

toward the neighborhood not a single

prayer will be said by any of us on

the block to distance life around here

from the nights spent dancing on the

sidewalk, holding each other close,

kissing grandmothers who smile and

finding healing in the words of King,

Romero and Tito’s grandfather who

lives in building 1203.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Culture ©

it has not been easy preserving

my culture, language and ways

to think about God surrounded

by an English speaking world

trying to engulf me in an alleged

superior way of knowing things

and claiming it a dispensation

from heaven. with my mother

tongue I learned to reduce the

world to stones that spoke to

me, the dead who cried with

me, the priests who found ways

to whisper stories about how la

Morenita walks with me on all

the messy streets. it hasn’t been

easy to preserve the child in me

who never speaks English and

has never lost a dream given to

him by a mother from an island

of enchantment and a father from

Mayan hills.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Listen ©

you did not hear me

calling your name in

the evenings that held

you close miles away

in a Spanish speaking

world where the dew

each morning I recall

spoke your name. the

distance was sadness,

the civil war terrifying

and quietly I tossed prayers

to heaven. listen, I love

you like the winds that

blow in Central American

valleys and on city streets.

for years, you have held

me fair, my dreams are

made of songs about you

and the children we call

ours to whom I am known

by heart are a blessing like

the daughter who suddenly

departed.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Village Walk ©

the road narrowly stretched

out in a long line toward the

place of hidden secrets sleeping

in a church where light clustered

like fireflies in June. the voices

singing in the sanctuary came

clearly and sweetly to me so

I closed my eyes and allowed

the sounds to lengthen into the

night. upon that mystery in the

little village church I rested my

heart troubled by trodden paths

taken in a civil war world with

too many youths perishing. the

long walk made me wonder what

was won, who is living in exile,

the meaning of theological truth,

moral predicaments, and untiring

attempts to invent stories out of

the evening stars, children with

hearts made of laughter and the

dreams beneath the compulsion

of going to war and convincing

us the earth is enriched by the

bones of the dead.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

ICE ©

they are killing us at

the bus stops, on the

sidewalks, apartment

buildings, during traffic

stops, detention centers,

in front of our children,

and always in the name

of hate. they are killing

us while too many look

the other way, churches

roll away their Bibles

and those of us not yet

murdered remain to wipe

away the bitter tears. they

are killing us in the Midwest,

from coast to coast and in

the places the goodness of

God appears unable to reach.

they are killing the young

Brown men, little kids, aging

fathers, poor mothers, and

braided hair girls with Angel’s

smiles and I cannot look up

to heaven to declare it is

well with my soul.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Mon, 13 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Echo ©

in nightly hours, I had a

dream that should have

been paradise for people

on the block nostalgic for

the pulse of peaceful days

by the sea. I did not say

a single word of prayer in

it to God wearing a human

face with a long beard and

robes, life was not governed

by lies, no one was attacked

with police batons, the pious

did not imagine who next to

stone and the practices of

widows reminded everyone

to dream of lands across the

border and rocks way out at

sea. an elegant table in the

dream was spread with food,

tropical fruits and nothing to

eat prohibited by heaven and

names were shouted in the

direction of the block from

what appeared to be the gate

of Eden and they were said

repeatedly.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sun, 5 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Frescoes ©

the stoop was made into a

place of joy without money,

bricks, wood, paint, furniture,

and the things needed to build

such a space. we gathered on

thick hot days to tell slow stories,

and laugh about things arising in

time and space. unseen dealings

were exposed in dreams, memories

of bygone days and celebrations

enjoyed of how far in life we’ve

come. beneath a field of stars, we

never lived in darkness, no one

was diminished and feelings passed

between stoop sitters like candle

flames dancing on church altars

for Saints. an elderly women with

us smiled before saying how clever

it is for kids to paint frescoes on

alley walls revealing to newcomers

who were kept illiterate the tales of

Jesus spreading the seeds of his

Word in places judged to have no

importance.

h. j. Recinos

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Harold J. Recinos — Sat, 4 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Night Walk ©

I am familiar with the night

on village streets that no one

walked, the soldiers on watch

beneath raining clouds, the nuns

in habit making haste and old

women bent over stoves that

feed hungry faces. I have walked

by churches delivering street songs,

passing the saddest alleys where the

homeless rest, paused beneath the

brightest lampposts to look up at a

twilight sky searching it for divine

signs. I have greeted children playing

football on the street, listened to them

in loudest laughs, sat quietly hearing

stories from the untaught and measured

what blessings carried by the wind to

me. I have walked the dark streets

with no one around, talked with God

about the fatally divided earth, expected

to hear heavenly words from the maker

of things like mercy, pity, hope, peace,

justice and love. I ended not far from

the stroll start and sat beneath a mango

tree and reached for a mature flower

pushing through cracks on a bottom

step that revealed something deeper

with silence.

h. j. Recinos

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